


wake

by biggrstaffbunch



Category: Star Trek: Alternate Original Series (Movies)
Genre: Also shameless Bones adoration and appreciation, Dry Humping, Honestly guys, Like teenagers, M/M, and acknowledgment from Jim that Bones helped save his life too!!!!, get some respect, post star trek beyond
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-28
Updated: 2016-08-28
Packaged: 2018-08-11 11:27:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,510
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7889869
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/biggrstaffbunch/pseuds/biggrstaffbunch
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The visible path of turbulence left behind when a ship passes over water. And, the act of coming alive after a long slumber.</p><p>After Altamid, Jim and Leonard meet for those drinks. Things...progress pretty fast after the millionth near-death experience, turns out.</p>
            </blockquote>





	wake

“Mr. Sensitive.”

Jim’s voice is low, rich with that thread of amusement that makes Leonard’s lips twitch in an answering smile.

He raises a glass, catching Jim’s eyes in the bar mirror. “That’s me,” he says. His voice is low for some reason, too. Like it’s something just for the two of them, despite the quiet buzz of noise from patrons around them. “'S late. Didn’t think you’d show.”

Jim cocks his head. “What, and miss drinking with you? Never, Bones. Especially now that every muscle in my body is screaming. Man, artificial gravity is a  _ bitch _ when it goes wonky.”

When Jim slings one leg around the bar stool next to Leonard, he doesn’t seem in any visible pain. In fact, he feels as lean and strong as ever, his thigh pressing close in a long warm line. Knees are knobby as shit, though, and the little detail turns Leonard’s half-grin into a full-blown smirk.

“What’s so funny?” Jim asks. He’s still talking like he and Leonard are on the observation deck of the Enterprise, hushed in deference of the stars. He’s near enough that his breath is hot against Leonard’s ear.  He smells like antiseptic and hair gel, clean. 

“Nothin’,” Leonard says. He scoots over the other glass of whiskey at his elbow, motioning with his chin. “Just thinking about how you used to knee me in the back whenever we bunked together at the Academy.” He looks at Jim over the rim of his glass. Sips, long and deep. “Your chicken legs are the only parts of you that haven’t quite grown up, huh, Jim?”

Jim considers him, blue eyes electric, crinkles fanning at the corners. He hooks his ankle around Leonard’s, the stool wobbling precariously. “Hey, now,” he says. “You’ve grown up, too, Dr. McCoy.” 

There’s a thread of insinuation in his tone, the kind that sinks low in Leonard’s belly and moves through Leonard’s blood all honeyed and slow. Turns him stupid. Jesus, and the whiskey isn’t helping any. Sometimes it’s like this, after near-death episodes. Just being around Jim gives Leonard a gnawing, restless hunger in the pits of his stomach, this mounting need that feels like it’s been unearthed from somewhere deep and dark.

Leonard tries to subtly shift away. Jim doesn’t seem to notice, crowds closer, nose brushing Leonard’s neck.

“Saving my ass with an alien aircraft,” he marvels, nudging Leonard’s elbow. “Surprise birthday parties. Taking care of  _ Spock _ .”

“Like I said,” Leonard says, tipping his glass back for another long swallow. “Mr. Goddamned Sensitive.”

Jim chuckles, and Leonard’s pulse jumps with gladness. It’s been awhile since he’s heard Jim laugh like he was genuinely amused, content with the world around him. Secure, like he knows his place in the way of things.

Funny how Jim’s equilibrium always seems to resettle after getting the shit kicked out of him.

Leonard’s hand moves of its own accord, settling over the nape of Jim’s neck.

“You happy, Jim?” he asks softly, grip firm. 

Instead of answering, Jim closes his eyes, his lashes a dark fan across his cheekbones. He’s so damn pretty that it makes Leonard’s teeth ache.

“I am happy, Bones,” Jim confirms after a moment, opening his eyes. “My crew’s alive, we’re all together, and we’re gonna go back up there soon. We’re gonna make things happen. Do some good.” In the mirror, he meets Leonard’s gaze. “There’s not much else I could ask for, is there?”

“Well. Humans’re greedy little animals,” Leonard says, and for some reason his eyes won’t leave Jim’s in the mirror. “They always ask for more, even when what they’ve got is already enough.”

Jim licks his bottom lip, just a quick dart of tongue, and Leonard feels bowled over by the sheer shock of heat that bolts through him, the sudden  _ awareness _ it brings.

“We gonna toast or what?” Leonard asks hastily. Their eye contact breaks, and Leonard looks instead at his glass, tilting it against Jim’s in a parody of a salute.

“To another year in the life of James T. Kirk,” he says. “Gift got blown up with  _ The Enterprise _ , sorry.”

Jim snorts, slinging an arm around Leonard’s shoulders. “Are you kidding? Saving my life  _ again _ is a pretty awesome present on its own, Bones.”

Leonard rolls his eyes. “Thought that was Spock’s job,” he says. He’s mostly joking but Jim frowns, tugging Leonard closer.

“I mean, yeah. Spock’s my friend. He watches out for me. But so do you. Don’t think I don’t notice, or that it doesn’t mean more to me than you could ever know. The only reason I was on  _ The Enterprise  _ to begin with is because of you.”

Leonard is touched. “Aw, now, come on, Jim,” he says, embarrassed. “Not like you haven’t repaid the favor by saving our hides more times’n I can count.”

Jim’s expression is inscrutable for a moment. “Not a favor, Bones,” he corrects. “What I realized, up in that ventilation shaft...the answer I’ve been looking for…” he trails off, eyes going unfocused. “I think I finally understand.”

He drums an absent rhythm into the curve of Leonard’s shoulder. “Been working my whole life to figure out what I’m supposed to be doing,” he says. “Who I’m supposed to  _ be. _ Why my dad died to keep me alive, what it was even worth. But I get it now. I do. Being the captain of a ship means more than diplomatic missions and the only shower with real water. It means you have a family. And when you have a family, you fight for them. You die for them, if you’ve got to. Because without them, you’re just a guy in a yellow shirt. But with them? You’re part of something. Something big, and important, and...and,  _ totally _ worth it.”

His fingers curl into the leather of Leonard’s jacket, bunching at the shoulder, a secure grip. “So, no,” he says. “Not a favor. A responsibility.” He smiles a crooked smile. “An honor.”

That hunger, the amorphous need that Leonard’s never named, flares higher. It races under his skin, through his veins, stops the breath short in his lungs.

Jim Kirk is his best friend, but more than that, he’s a damn fine man. And every time Leonard’s reminded, he wants to—

Kiss him. 

It’s the kind of thought Leonard doesn’t like to indulge. Only when he’s feeling particularly raw and exposed, only if Jim’s spent any time recently out of reach. But he wonders, in these weaker-willed moments: If he were to lean over and press his mouth, hot and tender, against that bruise sitting high on Jim’s cheekbone. Map the arch of Jim’s throat with his tongue. Suck a bruise, blossoming blood under the pale skin, at the juncture of his neck and shoulder. If he were to slant Jim’s chin so their tongues would meet, slick and bittersweet. What would it be like?

Catastrophic, probably. But, oh. So good, too.

Leonard slings back the rest of his drink, studiously pretending he doesn’t notice his fingers shaking as he wipes the back of his hand across his mouth. 

“Happy birthday, Captain Kirk,” he says. “We’re real lucky to have you.”

The shadows carve into Jim’s face, bringing into focus every elegant angle, the lush curve of his lower lip, the wings of his brows. There’s a notch of worry in his expression.

“Bones.” Jim’s voice is bemused. It sounds the way he looks at Leonard often, thoughtful, curious, indulgent. Just the slightest bit impatient. “You okay?” 

“I’m not sure,” Leonard says honestly, giving a little huff of a laugh. “Think the bottle’s goin’ to my head a little. Didn’t eat a whole lot today.”

Jim’s gaze slides into something more speculative. He tugs Leonard close one more time, a gentle squeeze. “Too busy taking care of everyone else, huh? Like always.” He unwinds his arm from Leonard’s shoulders, slams back his whiskey, then hops off the stool.

“Come on,” he says, expectant. He puts his hand out. Wiggles his fingers. “Come on!” he says again, when he sees Leonard’s scowl.

“Dammit, Jim. I deserve a drink after the week I’ve had!”

Jim rolls his eyes. “Of course you do, Bones,” he says patiently. “And I got an absolutely  _ beautiful _ bourbon in the post from mom. Birthday gift. Since I’m a benevolent captain, I’m inviting you to partake.” He wiggles his fingers again. “Plus, she sent a little box of I’danian spice pudding. We can share.”

Leonard deliberately swallows against the shiver deep in his chest at the words,  _ we can share. _

“Benevolent, my ass,” he grumbles. He slides his hand into Jim’s, lets himself be pulled off his stool, tamping down another shiver at the feel of Jim’s skin, the easy fit of their fingers. “I get the bigger slice of pudding, you hear?”

Jim smiles, and it does something squirrely to Leonard’s insides. 

“Sure thing, Bones,” he says warmly.

Way he figures it, Leonard’s got years of practice ignoring unsavory truths. He’s been Jim’s friend for years already without once acting on the waves of _wanting_ that come and go. He can do it now, too. Maybe his brain’s been addled by the complete terror of flying that bee, or the strange intimacy of listening to Spock talk about Uhura, but if Leonard knows anything, he knows when to put the lid on bad ideas.

“Vámonos, pal,” he says. 

If his lips burn around the words, no one else is any the wiser.

 

|

 

The bourbon is rich and soft, mellow notes of vanilla and caramel, a smoky oak scent that lingers on Leonard’s tongue. He sips it neat, tries to go slow and savor. 

He’s really soused.

The thing with working in deep space is, a person’s alcohol tolerance goes to shit. Even with the eye-watering moonshine being made in engineering, there’s no call to get so drunk that physical coordination becomes a challenge. Used to be that Leonard could recite the Hippocratic oath backwards when drinking. Now, he can barely say his own name without that heavy feeling on his tongue.

Which is a problem, because his mouth is moving too slow to shut up fast enough when he says something stupid.

“I’m  _ what _ ?” Jim asks. He’s on the couch next to Leonard, sipping his own bourbon, and there’s a glow of amusement on his face.

“Han’some,” Leonard says accusatorily, stabbing a finger perilously close to Jim’s nose. “You know you are, you perpetual miscreant.”

“Bones,” Jim says, batting away Leonard’s finger. There might be a note of hilarity in his voice. “I’m flattered.”

Leonard says again darkly, eyebrows furrowed: “Handsome.” He zeroes in again with his finger, manages to poke right at Jim’s cheek, where the stubble is growing. And, where, apparently, the bruising is still painful.

“Ow!” Jim bats Leonard’s finger away again. “I was going to say that you’re not so bad yourself, but then you assaulted me, so—”

“Infant,” Leonard mutters, but the insult has no teeth. He’s already crowding close, turning Jim’s face in the low light so he can take a better look at the bruise, the yellow edges and the swelling. His hands are gentle and steady as they turn Jim by the chin, tilting and maneuvering so carefully it’s as if he’s performing surgery.

At least that’s one skill he hasn’t lost when foxed. Yet.

Leonard sweeps a thumb over the plane of Jim’s cheek, watching curiously as Jim’s eyelashes flutter shut. Away from the crew, temporarily unburdened of responsibility, Jim looks young. Tired. Like he’s ready and willing to let Leonard take him apart.

God. And Leonard wants to.

“How come you didn’t let me heal this, huh?” Leonard growls. “I hate lookin’ at your face all busted up. Reminds me that you almost got sucked into space after getting the shit kicked outta ya.”

Jim opens his eyes, looks so affronted that Leonard almost smiles. “I did not get the shit kicked out of me,” he says indignantly. “Edison was three inches taller and like a million pounds of muscle—think I held my own pretty well.”

Leonard scoffs, but doesn’t drop his hand from Jim’s face. Instead, he idly strokes the hair at Jim’s temple. “Still. Don’t like seeing you hurt.”

There’s a thick beat of silence, and Leonard feels a distant sort of panic, that sick, drunk recognition that he’s said something too honest.

Jim’s fingers feel like individual points of heat, like tiny stars, when they settle on Leonard’s wrist. “I know, Bones,” he says. “Sometimes it’s good to keep a reminder, though. Of what we’ve lost. Of what we could lose, if we’re not careful.”

His voice drops. “Ourselves,” he continues. “And our—people. The people we love.” When he looks into Leonard’s eyes, it’s with an intensity that cuts right through the haze of inebriation. “I want to remember that there are things in my life I would fight for. Even if it comes at the expense of my face.”

He cracks a smile at that, but Leonard can’t smile in return. That urge to kiss Jim is back with a vengeance.

“Such a pretty face,” Leonard says, the words dragging out of his mouth, almost begrudging.

Jim’s expression flickers. “Thought I was handsome,” he says. The pressure of his fingers increases on Leonard’s wrist. His grip is just shy of too tight.  

“That too,” Leonard says mournfully. “Dammit.”

Jim’s very close. So close that Leonard can feel the whisper of his breath as he laughs. “Well, don’t look so sad about it, Bones.” The hand that’s not grasping Leonard’s wrist is reaching out to cup Leonard’s neck, massaging the tight muscles at the base of his skull. 

The alcohol  _ almost _ dulls the moan that rips out of Leonard’s mouth. Almost.

Jim huff out a laugh again. It’s like slow motion as he leans in, rests his forehead against Leonard’s. “You with me, man?” he asks.

It’s Leonard’s drowsy, slightly insulted, slightly admonishing, “Always,” that finally seems to tip Jim into closing the scant distance between them, his mouth a gossamer-light press that nonetheless seizes Leonard right in the chest, squeezing a fist around his heart.

He clutches Jim’s shirt, the leather jacket long discarded. “Jim?” he asks, against Jim’s lips. His voice sounds fractured, tenuous. “Jim,” he says again, and then he slants his head just  _ so _ and opens his mouth a little more, turns the kiss from chaste to filthy with a few hot, slick swipes of his tongue.

And Jim doesn’t hold back, gives as good as he’s getting, gripping Leonard by the neck and angling him so he can kiss deeper, nipping a sting at Leonard’s bottom lip. He tastes like bourbon and I’danian cinnamon, the slightest tang of blood, the waxy lip salve he is always applying. One hand drops to Leonard’s waist, pulling him so he’s half sprawled in Jim’s lap, and God help him but he doesn’t fight it, goes willingly, crawling as close as he can get and groaning as Jim hisses his name like an invective.

“Christ, Bones,” Jim says, lips and cheeks pinkened. He’s half hard against Leonard’s thigh. Without thinking, Leonard grinds against the thick line of him, circles down until Jim’s hips are pushing up restlessly, his name a string of sounds punctuated by broken gasps.

“Yeah, sweetheart,” Leonard says, and everything is being pulled out of him like taffy, stretched and slow and melting, all his feelings of fear and worry and overwhelming, infuriating love. The easy endearments he always aborts in favor of friendly insults, the longing that is always hidden by professional distance. The whole mess of it has lived in the back of Leonard’s throat, and now it lies on the tip of his tongue, and each desperate kiss is unraveling the knot a little bit more. “Jim, darlin’, just—yes, fuck,  _ there _ —”

They’re rubbing together like two teenagers humping in the back of a car, but it’s the most thrilling thing Leonard’s experienced in recent adult memory. Jim’s whining, a low keen every time their dicks align. He’s flushed, smelling sharp like alcohol and musky like sweat, and for all that they’ve never done this before, it’s as familiar to Leonard as his own name.

Jim’s hand grapples with Leonard’s belt, abandoning the clasp to just stroke him through the denim, bold and impatient. Leonard bites off Jim’s name behind gritted teeth, fingers tightening in Jim’s hair even as he grinds down again, feels the ridge of Jim’s dick nestled against his ass.

“What—the—fuck—was—in that— _ pudding _ ?” Jim laughs helplessly, stroking the rise of Leonard’s erection, the friction deliciously firm.

“Pretty sure—it—was the—alcohol— _ dumbass _ ,” Leonard mumbles, because many a man has been led astray by a good bottle of fine Kentucky bourbon. So what if his downfall comes with some recreational necking, too? 

This is fine. 

Leonard moans again at the hot clutch of arousal in his groin at every brush of Jim’s fingers, every press of Jim’s mouth against the open collar of Leonard’s chest.

This is  _ fine _ .

The pressure at the base of his spine builds, that squirming, tight spiral of pleasure. Leonard breathes through his nose, long streams of air, tries to hold himself back even as Jim’s thumb presses along the fattened outline of his cock, even as Jim encourages him with soft, “Come on, Bones, you need this, you deserve it, fuckin’ reluctant hero, flying ships, saving lives, come  _ on _ Bones, come on, do I have to make it a goddamned order—”

And when Leonard comes with his lips pressed in Jim’s hair, mouthing a litany of things even his drunk self wouldn’t dare say out loud, Jim follows with a rough cry, hips lifting off the couch and hands squeezing the curve of Leonard’s ass. 

They sit like that, catching their breaths, jeans gone sticky with drying come, shirts plastered sweatily to their skin. It should feel ridiculous but it doesn’t, two grown men with long limbs and broad shoulders, twined together on a too-small couch, alcohol practically bleeding out their pores, panting like they just ran a marathon. Lips kiss-swollen and hair mussed. Eyes too bright, smiles suddenly uncontrollable.

“Jim,” Leonard croons, climbing unsteadily off Jim, pleased to note his faint protests. “Did my flying turn you on?”

The look Jim gives him is equal parts a glare and a hooded invitation. He unbuttons his pants, grimacing as the tacky material slides down his thighs. “You know it did, you ornery bastard.”

Leonard considers this, following suit. “Well, no,” he says, denim dropping to the ground. “I never thought you were—I mean.” He fumbles, kicks his pants across the room. “I might’ve, if you—” 

Jim rolls his eyes and grabs Leonard’s hand, an unambiguous declaration with each finger that interlocks with his.

“Bones,” he says. “Sometimes, you look at me like you’re gonna go down on me right in sickbay. I was just waiting for you to get with the program and do it.”

Leonard runs his tongue along his lower lip, savors the taste of Jim and lingering bourbon. He still feels too drunk, but the room’s stopped spinning now that Jim’s taken his hand.

“Okay,” Leonard says faintly. “That sounds...nice.” 

Jim doesn’t look at him, voice the slightest bit uncertain as he says, “And to be clear, I. Uh.“ He clears his throat, looks at the ceiling. “I’m thinking more than just sexscapades on  _ The Enterprise. _ I’m a year older now, y’know? I figure the elderly should stick together. A Captain and his CMO, yelling at Betazoids to get off their lawn.” 

He peers at Leonard from under his lashes, and Leonard feels that need in his chest again, stirring with interest. Damn Jim and his damn sincerity, and its damn link to Leonard’s libido. 

“Okay,” he says again, bringing Jim’s knuckles to his lips, dusting a kiss there and enjoying the flush that rises from Jim’s neck. “That sounds nice.”

Jim grins, more secure. “Thought it might,” he says smugly, stretching his legs out. “You hate Betazoids.”

“I don’t hate anyone, Jim,” Leonard says primly. “I just don’t want anyone in my damn head.” He can’t help himself; even as he snarks, he nuzzles the line of Jim’s throat, makes good on the fantasy of sucking a bruise into the thin skin.

Jim gasps. “Don’t—uh—knock it, Bones,” he breathes, carding his fingers through Leonard’s hair, his other hand settling over the erection once again beginning to tent his sticky briefs. “It’s kind of nice to have someone who knows you, inside and out.”

His voice says he’s not talking about Betazoids anymore, and Leonard laps delicately at the purpling mark he’s made, feeling pride and possession burst forth.

“Likewise, kid,” Leonard says, and feels the confession down to his toes. “Think my bedside manner’s as good with anyone else?”

Jim peels at the waistband of Leonard’s boxer shorts, smiling at the bitten-off groan that it elicits. 

“Mr. Sensitive,” he teases.

And then, there are no more words for a while.  
  



End file.
